We said we’d have a berry farm in the mountains.
We would have had kids who ran around with too-long hair and never any shoes. They’d be olive like him and good swimmers. We’d have nights on porches with all the stars we ever wanted and sunshine mornings with wildflowers and sweet potato pancakes.
He answered the phone, “Hee-ey there, pretty girl.” I learned that Eagle Scouts aren’t always prepared.
It was one month, and beautiful the way something can be when it is purely hypothetical-- like communism and vegan baked goods.
We both cried, sitting on the trunk of his Blazer with the rusty top. Nine days, I’d begged. Let’s just have these last nine days.
We graduated. We never said I love you. When my brother met a whole bunch of my exes at a single graduation party, he said he didn’t like Fred. He asked if I thought Hugo would help me move.
Fred’s an accountant now. He has tidy hair and shirts with buttons and proper shoes and no piercings.
“How long have you been waiting for me to do that?” There was that sweaty weekend and that night in that hotel. Even when Eagle Scouts grow up to be accountants, they aren’t always prepared.
He doesn’t answer his phone the same way anymore, which probably makes sense. I’d forgotten about the mole on his right cheek.
Fred’s a pile of what-if. What if we’d figured it out sooner. What if I hadn’t moved when I’d graduated. What if he’d gotten this job instead of that one.
What if he’d ever fought for it.
p.s. i hope you click the link and remember how this used to be a dating blog.